


Update, Please!

by a_storm_of_frustrations



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Editor Au, F/M, Fanfiction, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Yuuri On Ice, Newspapers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2018-10-20 13:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10663290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_storm_of_frustrations/pseuds/a_storm_of_frustrations
Summary: In which Bitty works as a food columnist, by day, at the Lifestyle Department of the Providence Newspaper. And by night, well, Bitty writes well-written novel length scenarios about two figure skaters who are totally gay for each other.Enter Jack Zimmerman, history buff, broody, rich, the whole protagonist stereotype, who also works as the Editor of the Lifestyle Department of the Providence Newspaper. And well, Jack accidentally stumbles upon Bitty's secret once upon a lunch break. With his secret out to the last person he wanted to know, how will his own story play out? Join Bitty as he struggles with annoying coworkers, anon hate reviews, unnecessary crushes on one's editor, long winded disclaimers, and what it means to pursue one's passion, and inspiration, in writing.





	1. Quivering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As is with all great stories, there is the crime. The catalyst.
> 
> In this one, the introduction _is_ the catalyst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been my first fic since, idk, Glee-era ended. So forgive me, I've been trying to not let my writing go rusty.
> 
> I suck at summaries, so I might end up editing that one.
> 
> Enjoy!

_The raven haired beauty reddened like a tomato upon seeing the Russian ~~figure ska~~ ~~model~~ playboy billionaire in all his naked glory, still wet and hot from the steaming shower. _

  
_'W-what are you doing here?' he gasped, his heart beating so fast he was waiting for it to jump leap from his chest and run away. Because he was so close to running away himself. If only the still hot, wet, naked figure stood between him and the door._

  
_Not that he really wanted to, I mean come on, it was like a chocolate ~~cak~~ pie with whipped cream on top served right in front of you._

  
_Piercing cerulean eyes smoldered at him. His lips curled into a smirk. 'Silly boy', he murmured in a lustful voice as his hips swung suggestively with every step he took. 'I already came for you', he pouted, 'since you were so ~~adam~~ stubborn in rejecting my every move.'_

  
_The bespectacled Japanese reddened even further. How can he believe this! He was just a dork for pete's sake! He hated parties, he loved baking, and sometimes figure skating._

_He was a nobody._

_The taller man bent down, and Yuuri found himself trapped. Not that he disliked it, but the overpowering scent of the bodywash ~~Victor Viktor~~ Vi **k** tor used awoke the shameless desire of his body. 'You're not a nobody', Viktor whispered. 'You're my Yuuri.'_

  
_'You're my katsudon', and with that Yuuri's eyes couldn't take the bedroom gaze the Russian was giving him. His onyx eyes trailed down to the broad shoulders, the well-defined chest, the six packed abs, and finally, he ~~gasped~~ moaned as he saw Viktor's ~~shaking~~ ~~trembling~~_

  
"How about _quivering_?" a kind voice steadily suggests. _Huh_. Bittle pauses, fingers poised above the keyboard. Not a bad idea.

  
Bittle turns his head quickly, ignoring the sudden pain blooming in his neck. Jamming his laptop closed, he could already feel his whole face heat up. "W-what? I beg your pardon?"

It is a damn cliche. But deep blue eyes, which he could certainly write paragraphs about, seems to twinkle at him, mouth softly curving upwards. Those were the same blue eyes that haunted him for his first few months as an assistant subject researcher, and then some few months later, only this time, as a lifestyle columnist.

  
It's Jack Zimmerman.  Jack Zimmerman, the person who has not only changed the old layout and theme of the lifestyle broadsheet, but as well managed to raise the number of its readers. It had been so gloriously a feat as people were more into online articles, buzzfeed news, and feature columns. But somehow, the both _infamous_ and  _famous_ Jack Zimmerman has managed to achieve it. Jack Zimmerman, as in the editor of the lifestyle department. Jack, as in his _boss_.

  
His boss, who catches him write, well, fan fiction, during lunch break. And not just any fan fiction, but it was downright smut. It was on the _pwp_ track too.

  
"I expect your draft to be finished tonight, Bittle", Jack reminds as he made his way to his little separated glass office way at the back of the room. "And by draft, I meant your monthly review and recs", he grins.

  
Bittle's eyes widens as he glances around to check if anybody else was listening. "Um, y-yes of of-course", a hysteric laugh escapes him. "I'm--yes, oui, oh dear god". Eyes scrunched shut, he wills to calm his frantic heart.

  
The sound of a glass door sliding shut jerks Bittle back to life.

  
Hastily, Bittle exits the now forever cursed wordpad document. Clicking on the minimized window, he sets to finish his article.

  
He has a deadline after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PWP - Porn without Plot  
> Smut - Basically, fics with sex scenes. If I remember correctly, it was firstly dubbed as Lemon (during livejournal and ff.net days)


	2. Postponed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Bittle fails as a ninja.
> 
> In which, Lardo sucks as an accomplice.
> 
> In which, Shitty is an HR's worst nightmare.
> 
> In which, Jack is (unintentionally) an asshole.

" _OhmygodOhmygodOhmygod_."

"Bittle--what", Lardo pulls her earphones out, foot used as a brake to stop the impact from another office chair crashing into hers. The scent of watermelons with a hint of cucumber fills her nose as tufts of blonde hair rests underneath her chin. "Eric."

"Oh my gooooood", Bittle whines, fake sobbing into her shirt. "Larissa. Oh my god, _Larissa_."  
  
"I swear to god, if this is about another Beyonce quip, go bother Holster instead", she grumbles as she tries to push him off of her, "I've got another deadline. Captain Fucker just scrapped the whole layout I've been working on, and the goddamned intern is still useless bullshit."  
  
The sudden barrage of swears finally signals Bitty that this drama could probably wait. "Oh honey", he lightly scratches Lardo's hoodie, knowing that the sensation calms her a bit. "I'm sorry. Do you want me to ask Shitty to help you?"  
  
Only a grunt comes in as a response.  
  
"Yeah, my bad, he's a great writer and all, but he's a shitty artist", Bitty sighs. That lifts the corner of her mouth, eyes unwavering in front of the computer. Different colors highlighting the sunken eyes, the week old ketchup smear on her cheek, and the trails of eyeliner hastily erased. He stands up, glancing over the other cubicles, sort of like how a predator surveys the land for his prey.  
  
"Dex?"

  
"Might end up killing each other."

  
"Uhhh, Whiskey?"

  
"Still in that meeting with Ransom for figures and copies and stuff."

  
Bitty juts his hip out. There should be somebody. He stands on tiptoes, fingers idly circling the smooth surface of the mouse pad. "Oh!" His arm shoots up to wave at a person. "What about--oh _fuck_ \--"

  
That gets her attention as she opens her mouth to remark on her friend's strange behavior, when Bitty all but jumps underneath her desk. Placing his finger on his lips, Bitty grabs Lardo's leg with his free hand to emphasize her silence.

  
"Well, well, well", a person smoothly glides both of his hands across the cubicle partition, face half hidden behind it. Green eyes narrow at her almost nonexistent response. "Bad day?"

  
Lardo grunts as she holds out her fist. The guy immediately tiptoes over the partition to return the sentiment. "Need some help?"

  
She's so sleepy. She needs a shower. She misses her bed. When's the last time her stomach is filled with real food and not quick microwave meals? Glancing at the clock, it hit her that in less than twenty minutes, it will be completely twenty four hours of caffeine induced, sleep deprived, and still not finished work.

  
"No thanks", she yawns, arms stretching above as she jostles a bit at the tightening grip on her ankle. "If you can get me some coffee though, that would be greatly appreciated." A pensive pause. "And maybe a new intern."

  
"What's wrong with the intern?" a deep voice cuts in. Bitty's fingers slightly digs deeper into her skin, surely leaving nail marks. Lardo doesn't understand what's--

  
Oh.

  
Lardo smirks at Bitty. Bitty's face begins to drain of color. Lardo's smirk widens. It is a pure look of evil.

  
Oh _shit_.

  
"Oh hey Jack", Lardo greets him. Since the graphic design team, which mainly is composed of just herself, is stationed by the main entrance of the department floor, it's pretty easy to keep track of people going to places. And with Jack's sleeves messily folded to his elbows, and a ton of paper on one hand is any indication, it might actually mean that the general meeting has been finished, and she could go bother Ransom and Whiskey for the help. "I was just telling Shitty how shitty the intern was really."

  
Jack runs a hand through his hair. "Have you talked to the HR? I swear some kids these days just tend to drop everything when it starts--Shitty, what are you wearing?"

  
"What?" Shitty glances down. He's wearing a floral snapback, a loose pale pink kimono top with the words ['YES to  _Cats NO to Catcalls_ '](https://scontent-sit4-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/15492429_138447909975740_1964362875310527694_n.jpg?oh=c7a84ac07de7531091eba3d1f8f8242e&oe=597EA5F6) and an image of cats below it, and some skinny ankle cut jeans. "What's wrong with it?"

  
"Yeah Jack what's wrong with it?" Lardo snickers as she continues to drag the mouse in all sorts of directions with one hand, and to click keyboard shortcuts with the other, in great speed. "I kind of dig the top."

  
"Thank you for your excellent taste in fashion, Larissa", Shitty bows, strands of loose hair framing his face. "It's not my fucking fault that these jeans accentuate my ass perfectly, Mr. Zimmerman. I swear you're tempting me to write about ' _Objectification and the Male Gaze_ ' in my column."

  
"Ooh", Lardo eggs him on. "I can hear the air quotes, Jack. Shitty's serious."

  
Jack sighs. "Whatever. If HR's fine with it. So", he rests his hand on top of the computer screen to get her attention, "I think Chowder has some referral in his email. Take your pick. And have HR just transfer the intern to another department. None of them last in here anyway."

  
"Which is a fucking insult! I don't get why the Lifestyle Department is considered as the bane of any newspaper company. Like seriously, we write about the greatest fucking shits ever! We have fashion, we have food, and oh, speaking of food", Shitty grabs a plastic container from his messenger bag, "have you guys seen ProJo's cutest food columnist ever? Eric Bittle? Tiny, blonde, and a fucking walking ray of sunshine?"

  
An accidental slip of _'Ouch'_ from Lardo is what almost blows Bitty's cover. "Uh", she recovers quickly, "I think he went out? Something about delicious Canadi-- _fuck_ \--maple pie something."

  
"How interesting", Shitty curls his (impeccably groomed) mustache, and nudges Jack with his elbow. "Wanna go for a quick run of coffee?"

  
Even from her peripheral vision, it's clear as a day that Jack would rather focus on glancing over the drafts for next week's issue. The slight grimace on his face as he subtly raises the hand that holds the papers to Shitty, hopes that it's enough evidence for the incoming rejection.

  
"You know, I also need to find Bitty to return this", he taps the Tupperware on the nearest surface, "and just to chat him up about this thing--Jack's _thing_ , really." The look of indignation on Jack's face is priceless.

  
"You need Bitty that bad?" The persistent bursts of Morse codes being tapped unto her leg remain ignored as her arm yanked him from underneath the table. "Oh look, here he is."

  
Bittle remains crouched on the floor. "Huh. There it is", he pinches an imaginary object of the floor, pulls his eyelid, and motions placing a contact lens. "That was difficult", a nervous laugh escapes him, "I've been finding that one for _hours_."

  
Suddenly, Lardo feels grateful for the lack of sleep. So that she may be able to blame the train wreck happening in front of her as some sort of deprivation-induced nightmare. The secondhand embarrassment is so obvious that she just wants to hug Bitty and take him home.

  
"Hey Bitty!" Shitty pounces and wraps his arms around the other. "The blueberry pie is fucking delicious! If it was legal, I would've married it already. Like seriously bro, you've got some mad skills."

  
Heat creeps into Bitty's cheeks. "Oh, you're too kind, uhh Shitty." A sincere smile paints his face. "You've got to thank my Moomaw for that one. Bittle legacy and all."

  
"Didn't know you're as blind as a bat either", Shitty bends down to gaze at his eyes, "near sighted or far sighted?"

  
"Uh, n-near? I-I'm not sure."

  
"Though, I'm sure glasses would look good on you too", Jack pipes in. Three heads turn to his direction in an alarming speed. "What?"

  
"What."

  
"W-what?"

  
"Fucking what-- you fucking _beaut_ \-- come here!"

  
"Shitty get off--Fine! We'll go for that ridiculous coffee break. Grab your coat, let's go."

  
"Oh man, oh man, I'm so--Oh yes! There's this sweetass cafe that has these to die for bread things. Bitty, my man, my bro, do you wanna go?"

  
Bitty opens his mouth to respond, but a sharp glance in his direction quickly shuts it. "I don't think so. Bitty still has to finish that column of his. Eh, Bittle?"

  
"Uh--on second thought, y-yeah. Still halfway done." The expression on Shitty's face as Bitty utters those words probably comes across that he isn't buying any of his bullshit. Before Shitty could refute, Jack whips out his phone, and starts dialing a number. "I'm leaving you."

  
"Wh--wait, Jack!" Grabbing his jacket, Shitty hugs Bittle. "Sorry bro, he doesn't mean that. He's in a mood--I don't know. Lards, as black as your soul?"

  
"Coffee as black as my soul, yes. Please, and thank you."

  
"Coming right up."

  
Just as any hurricane, the pair leaves in a flurry of heated whispers and subtle gestures. Sighing, Lardo turns her office chair as she waits for her computer to save the poster she's working on. "Bits."

  
"It's okay."

  
"No, it isn't."

  
"He's right", he admits with a shrug. "I'm just halfway done with my article, and I still have to find Nursey for proofreading."

  
" _Bits_."

  
"Talk to you later okay?"

  
Lardo narrows her eyes at him. "Later", she utters, the word laced as a promise.

 

  
_Yuuri sighs. He doesn't know what he ~~said~~ did that made Viktor disappointed in him._

  
~~_It's not as if his existence annoys him in a grand scale_ ~~

  
~~_He submits the articles a few minutes after the deadline, unintentionally_ ~~

_~~Jack~~ Bosses are _ **stupid.**

 

  
Bittle deletes the document. It looks like his weekly update would have to be postponed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if its similar with other countries, but in my country, we call them as Sunday Newspapers. Mostly famous broadsheets have them. They're thin newspapers (only 3-4 pages), and they contain classified ads, obituaries, apartment leasing, comic strips (a whole page), and articles about fashion, food, health, culture, family and relationships, and anything that concludes to lifestyle.
> 
> So basically, this is where Jack, and the others work. And yes, they have the fewest people in that department.


	3. Late Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jack?” Bitty looks into blue eyes. “Jack”, he whispers, each letter breathing the inevitable prospect of buried emotions he doesn’t want to know. “Oh—uh—sorry about that.”
> 
> Jack lifts the corner of his mouth slightly. “I’m the one who scared you. What are you doing here anyway? And on a Friday night?”
> 
>  
> 
> Or: In which Bitty works over time, ignores certain thoughts and certain feelings about a certain person, and somehow, ends up alone with said certain person.

 

The smooth gray marble walls seem softer. With the way, the hanging lights reflect from them, covering the room in its gentle yellow light. Office chairs abandoned in varying distances from their respective cubicles, often indicating the state of urgency its owner leaves it in. A dinner date, an after-work drink at the bar, or even a night class program of some sort. Or even the adrenaline of being able to let out a sigh of relief upon leaving the office, of plans of lounging at home, a warm bed with fresh sheets, or a luxurious bath often paired with a glass of wine. Or two.

With apt attention, the startling difference of the arrangement of a setting during two periods of the day may instantly shift the perspective of its surveyor. Most of the equipment already switched off, the view of a number of working computers, either left updating, or left hanging, plays as a substitute for the rather scattered glittering stars, unfortunately blocked by the half-drawn blinds, and the pasted corporate presentations.

Pile of papers litter every desk, and missing items, with their own intriguing backstories, such as Nursey’s lucky pen, which he uses to spot errors with, end up in the most likely overlooked, but less likely unsettling places, such as say, stuck in the drawer of a certain graphic artist, borrowed but never returned.

The office itself, with its hard walls, cemented floors, and modern furniture, all sleek and elegant and _impenetrable_ , opens itself when the sun disappears, and darkness seem to blanket the entire city. With its ghost quiet corridors, and a certain touch of exhaustion, of seeking out comfort, through the soothing rhythmic drops of the broken sink, strewn with unwashed dishes, and cold coffee mugs.

A hunched figure, with the desk lamp facing outwards, shaping sunken eyes, and the repetitive biting of lips, continues to type at a rapid speed. Fingers pressing into keyboard simultaneously. A measurement of staccatos, lingering with light pauses, almost lacing its entirety as a gradual cantabile. There is nothing more exhilarating than for a writer to chase inspiration, and coat it in his words, molding it to the emotion it wants across.

That is, if you’re writing about the state famous pie making contest.

Bitty sighs. Brown eyes flicker to the wall clock. The wobbly figures seem to him a hieroglyphic that’s difficult to comprehend. His eyes drooping every once in a while. The length of the day seeps into his bones, wearing his body like a cloak, the heaviest feeling center in his chest. A lot of things, a lot of events, not to mention, a lot of deadlines, fill his mind, crashing in, all garbled as white noise, as he lay his head on top of his cold, smooth, table.

“Bittle?”

Pies. Pies walking. Pies in ice skates. Pies flying in the air, spinning, and then landing backwards. Pies—

“Eric?” Something warm smooths his hair. Then it slides down his shoulder, a gentle tap in slow successions. “Bitty?”

Bitty’s head jerks upwards, colliding with something pointed and hard. He lets out a yelp as his chair skids forward, and his chest hits the edge of the table.

“Hey—you okay buddy?” With the sharp pain in his chest, and the pounding of his head, Bitty bites his tongue to keep himself from saying something he might regret. Instead, his eyes prickle with tears. Quickly, he bows his head as he massages the sore spot. A bigger hand covers his, and as he turns to check who it is, the hand vanishes, the heat of it burning into Bitty’s skin.

“Jack?” Bitty looks into blue eyes. “Jack”, he whispers, each letter breathing the inevitable prospect of buried emotions he doesn’t want to know. “Oh—uh—sorry about that.”

Jack lifts the corner of his mouth slightly. “I’m the one who scared you. What are you doing here anyway? And on a _Friday_ night?”

A flash of embarrassment recoils in Bitty’s stomach. It’s really sad that Jack, his boss, catches him doing something he’s passionate about. But it’s another level of sad that he’s come to this. Brown eyes glance the room. Even without the layout of the place, he could name who sits where with such startling accuracy that even people from HR come up to him to ask about the employees. But now, with blank chairs, and empty spaces, Bitty terribly feels vulnerable. Nervous. Afraid. _Naked_.

Mostly, Bitty terribly _feels_.

 A strained laugh jumps out of him, startling them both. _Good lord_ , Bitty thinks. There’s some sort of marathon race going on in his chest. And his legs remind him of what his intense leg exercises with Katya feels like. “I, uh, dead—deadlines.”

“Oh right”, Jack nods. Bitty bites the inside of his cheek. The end of the world may come and go. And Jack will just nod as if everything is as it should be. “Only the draft though, we still have until next week to revise. What’s it about?”

“The recent pie-making contest in this pretty famous hole-in-the-wall café somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen”, Bitty grins, “Admittedly, some of the pies were adequate. But my Moomaw’s blue-ribbon county state fair apple pie holds a candle to _none_ of what was goin’ on in that circus. And y’all haven’t tried one of my blueberry crumble pies.”

Jack chuckles. His expression shifts midway. “You bake?”

Grabbing the Tupperware Shitty returned, Bitty crosses his fingers over his chest. “Since before I learned how to walk.”

“Wow, that’s—that’s something. I mean I’ve heard Shitty going on and on about your _‘life changing politically converting baked goodness_ ’ but”, Jack shrugs, “I’m—I haven’t tried one of yours because I guess, I’m not that of a pie person?” He admits sheepishly.

“Oh, my _lord_ ”, Bitty mock gasps, “we have to fix that one then. What’s your favorite pie?”

Lips curl in a slight smile, Jack shakes his head. “Honestly, I’ve only had pumpkin pie and pecan pie.”

Bitty’s mouth twitches at the word. “What do you like then? And its pronounced as _pecan_.”

Snickering, Jack leans against the edge of the table. He stares at Bitty. The yellow light softening the sharp outlines of his face. “Well, I like apple. And no, it’s not, its _pe_ can.”

“We can do this all night Mr. Zimmerman”, Bitty crosses his arms. “It’s pe _can_.”

“Oh? And here I thought you have a deadline to catch.” And honest to god, growing up around the ice and sports, that’s a chirp if he’s ever heard of one.

“Rude”, Bitty huffs, but he’s grinning.

With that particular quip, the conversation dissolves into a spontaneous, if not unintentional, staring match. Bitty raises his brows, pursing his lips, as he digs his nails deeper into his arms. If only but to ground his sanity, and to keep his soul from escaping his flushed body. He let himself briefly scan Jack, from his blue eyes, shining with mirth and surely hidden chirps, to his slightly sharp nose, to his, Bitty’s pleasant discovery, of a slightly maddening quip of boyish half-smile. His gaze wanders down to Jack’s broad shoulders, and the slim red necktie, half of which, is tucked inside his chest pocket, the folded sleeves, revealing his crossed forearms, light veins mapping his fair skin.

He quickly darts his eyes down the floor. Counting a few seconds before pulling his gaze upwards, only, he finds Jack not quite looking at his eyes, but on another part of his face. Shifting his position as he straightens his back, Jack inserts his hands into his pockets as he looks directly into Bitty’s eyes. The computer’s glare trapping them into a kind of surreal moment. With the office’s silence, its walls, its floors, its doors, as if swearing its promise of a secret, with the half-drawn blinds, the office chairs, and the unwashed dishes, all as witnesses, to be the tiny details of this development.

The moment, or whatever it is, fades as a rather upbeat song blares from the speakers. Bitty jolts from his chair.

“Well—uh”, Jack starts.

“So—you know”, Bitty talks.

They both laugh. With Jack running his hands through his hair, guise softening as he watches Bitty fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “I should let you get back to your writing.”

Bitty looks up. “Oh”, he pauses. “You aren’t going home yet?”

“I still have to write about the wedding”, Jack mumbles, gaze interested at the _organized_ mess of a desk Bittle has. He takes in the tiny desk calendar with multiple scribbles, and the post its stuck around the monitor, even ending on the edges of the keyboards. Reminders for deadlines, to do lists, bulleted ideas, and even random notes from his colleagues, prompts Jack at how Bittle is probably with other people.

On the other hand, Bittle wants to grab Jack’s hand, and ramble about his clandestine fanboy level of admiration for Jack’s articles. Especially the wedding ones. There’s something about the subtle details of sentiment, yet vivid imagery, of Jack’s writing, in contrast with his infamous, yet misunderstood (as Bitty comes to know), personality.

(It’s one of the reasons he ends up in this company in the first place.)

“Oh right, of course.”

“Go on then, get back to work”, Jack instructs, as if he’s breaking a huddle. “You can finish the piece before the deadline Bittle, I believe in you.” He turns to leave. Then stops.

Chair squeaking as he twists around, Bitty wonders if he could sneak in at least a couple of minutes for his, _personal project_ , because he really needs an outlet for all the emotions raging right now. Or he’ll explode. Possibly do something stupid. Or both.

Jack opens his mouth. And then closes it. Bitty narrows his eyes at the chain of events. “What?”

“Do you want some coffee?”

“Sure”, he smiles.

“Okay, I’ll be right back”, Jack tells him. And Bitty believes in him. It’s a promise. It’s silly to overthink things that Jack will be back. And Jack will bring coffee. For _him_. But he can’t help it. Not really.

Jack turns to go.

Clenching his fists, Bitty chews at his lip in utmost concentration. _Just say it, just say it, just say it, it’s nothing weird you’re not asking to marry him or—_

“Something”, Bitty says out loud. “Oh, _fuck me_ ”, he mutters.

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean!” Bitty grips the arm rests of his chair. “You can stay.” His heart almost gives out at Jack’s raised eyebrow response. “I mean, with me. Here. To work. Uh, you know, since you’re in that far corner black hole of yours. If you would like, we can work here”, he gestures stiffly to the open space. “Wherever.”

Jack smiles at that. “Sure, Bittle. I’d like that.” He nods. “It gets kind of lonely over there.”

Bitty crosses his arms as he nods in return. His forefinger and thumb pinches the skin it could reach the easiest. The pain is present. If the blooming redness is any indication. “Okay then uh, I’ll be here, working on my pie-article.”

“Try not to fall asleep okay?”

Bitty snorts as he turns to face his computer. Fingers poise to start working.

“After all, its pe _can_ , and not pe _can’t_.”

Heart hammering his chest, Bitty lets out a loud laugh tinged with genuine happiness. He stops swallowing down the muddling vague contradictions. He lets himself be filled up, be overwhelmed, be drunk, and be drowned of everything. Those can be dealt with later. With the usual amount of regret, and the burn of alcohol at the back of his throat.

And instead, he decides to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With that in mind, Bitty's speakers randomly play out this song:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sx7JdDGGHvA


	4. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He raises his eyes long enough to get Bittle’s attention as he says the next words that will undoubtedly haunt him in his sleep for the next few weeks. “If you have any qualms about them, then I guess this job isn’t for you. It’s simple: either get with the program or _quit_.”

_The office had long been abandoned. Exhaustion seeped through the air, quietly creeping into the low buzz of running computers, softly illuminating the room, as it would a sea of stars._

_A lone silhouette hunched over the computer, the light from the screen bouncing off his glasses. Fingers curled around the steaming cup of tea, the aroma loosening the tensed shoulders, and relieving the pain from the slightly cramped wrist of its owner._

_To Yuuri, this was peace._

_There was something intimate about working in the office at night. Kind of stepping into an entirely different world. Wherein during the day, the place would be abuzz with a flurry of activities. Halfhearted decisions rapidly inserted into an unabridged run-on speech to equally wound up caffeinated, nicotine-dependent, office drones. Everything was too much. Too bright. Too noisy. Too fast. The vivid varieties of actions swirled behind his eyes as explosions of kaleidoscopic colors._

_While at night, Yuuri could breathe._

_As the city was covered in darkness, the weariness of the day taking the toll on its inhabitants, the office itself felt as if it was breathing quietly as well. With nobody around, Yuuri could work. Yuuri could breathe._

_Well, almost everybody._

_Yuuri would glance, every now and then, to the furthermost cubicle a few rows across from him._

_There was really something different about the office at night. More serene. More comfortable. And apparently, it somehow alters the vibe a person can give out too._

_Warm brown eyes flickered towards the figure slouched in a rather sophisticated yet plush looking office chair. With two monitors reflecting images on one, and a number of all sorts of graphs and charts on the other, Yuuri ignored a twinge of embarrassment assuming that the great Victor Nikiforov is one of the editors or the writers of the company._

_After all, Victor seemed to be the type of guy who can write sonnets for you, and he could also be the type of guy who's being written about, sonnets-wise. And boy did Yuuri love his sonnets._

_Crammed in between articles for literary selections, and book reviews, were, as Pichit described, 'Edgar Allan Poe's attempt at sexting Oscar Wilde,' type of poetry._

_As Yuuri continued to second guess his selection for friends, blue eyes glanced at his expression, lips curling into a small smile at the unnoticed action._

 

_"_ _You okay, Yuuri?" Victor tilted his head, grin widening at the still dazed off yet befuddled face Yuuri was making._

_At the sound of his name, Yuuri jolted from where he was seated, a small amount of tea spilling on his hand, releasing a short, high pitched, squeak._

_"Oh my", Victor dashed to the aid of the younger man, cloth in hand._

_Heat flushed Yuuri's cheeks. If somehow, a portal to Narnia opened from the ground, he would happily jump into it and never come back. He would have needed a new identity. A new name. With a mysterious background. And an unapproachable yet soft personality. He shook his head. "I-I'm sorry", the heat on his face spread to his neck and his ears. Hands flailed in frantic apology as Victor clasped Yuuri's hand to dab at the shallow burn. "I'm sorry I'm so clumsy."_

_Victor chuckled. "Silly you, why are you apologizing?" Yuuri's hand was completely dry now, but he continued to dab. "It's my fault, I scared you."_

_"Y-you're not scary", Yuuri swallowed down his heart. "You just surprised me. That's all. I'm sorry."_

_"You shouldn't apologize really. I should apologize", Yuuri furrowed his brows at that, "and possibly thank you at the same time."_

_"Why?" Yuuri kept thinking how he's never going to wash, scratch that, use that hand ever again._

_Lifting Yuuri's hand, Victor pressed his lips against the lightly red skin. "It gave me a chance to do this."_

* * *

 

The glass door slams open. Its black metal outline panel against the wall resonates throughout the whole room.

 

Jack half sprints to his office, rolling his sleeves to his elbows. He tugs his necktie off with a bit more force. His skin feels a bit too raw. His chest a bit too tight. He grits his teeth as he digs his nails to his palms.

 

"Everybody except for junior editors. Conference room. Now." Jack grabs the knob of the door. Its smooth cold surface a welcome relief to the stinging heat of his hand.

 

Several people hang their heads. Whenever their dear editor is in a mood, hell (and the inevitable overtime) is sure to follow. After a few murmurings of complaints, people lethargically grab their writing instruments, and papers, some their laptops, and drag their feet towards the conference room.

                                                    

Bitty's eyes follow the heavy motions. He quickly saves both documents he's been working on and shuffles through his drawers for a pen with actual ink in it.

 

A tall, burly guy with blond hair and blue eyes covered with glasses walk past him, tablet and papers in tow.

 

"Holster!" Bitty touches his arm. "How bad is it?" Biting his lip, Bitty presses the switch to turn his monitor off. It's a habit that stuck with him ever since HR released a memo regarding leaving unused equipment functioning after office hours.

 

And well, call him paranoid, but he does not want a repeat of the whole Jack and smut fics fiasco.

 

Removing his glasses, Holster runs a hand over his face. A rather disgruntled sigh exhales through his nose. "Bad. Very bad. Extremely bad." Blue eyes warily glance at the seemingly threatening opened wooden door of the conference room. "Like screaming-match-during-the-general-editorial-meeting-world-war-three levels of nastiness."

 

Bitty gasps, hand flying over his heart. "Oh, my lord." Screaming matches are not entirely uncommon during any, scratch that, all kinds of meetings. Be it considering the theme of the weekly printout, any special editions to highlight, and even the number of copies to be distributed the following morning. The reason, as it kind of becomes an open secret in Providence Journal, is that well, the News team and the Lifestyle team have this sort of, tiff, to put it politely. And add the Sports department to the tiff, there's going to be some tag team gaming going on.

 

The rest of Providence Journal holds no shame in voicing out that the Lifestyle section should be integrated to the main newspaper. It makes sense. There's only so much lifestyle to cover. Prints will be cheaper, and the whole company schedule will be in sync, which is a plus for the printing company as well.

 

The transition of the integration had been postponed, and later, trashed, when Jack stepped in to become the head of the Lifestyle department. He has been fighting for the same equality, what with news getting 50% of the prints, and sports at least a total of three pages, back to back, that would mean downsizing articles to be printed from four back to back pages to a measly two. Not only will there be downsizing in publishing, but staff will be downsized as well.

 

It’s a sure thing that the company has been busy developing a difference in establishing their online presence through digital presentation to their printed one, but to think of interesting articles and features that distinguish their content from tabloids and gossip websites will undoubtedly be reflected in the restraint of the sudden decrease in pages.

 

After all, coherency is a key in any publishing. If the sports department does not result well, the content to appear should somehow complement, simultaneously acknowledging the overall theme as well.

 

And the rest of the Lifestyle Department have been isolated most of the time, with their ridiculous deadlines, and culture, and honestly, would anybody take what they've written seriously?

 

But to suddenly call out a staff meeting like this...

 

"Yo", a voice calls out. Red hair, brown eyes, and a splash of freckles peek from the doorway. "Zimms isn't growing any more patient." He jerks his head in an inward direction. "Waiting for you two."

 

An elegant looking pen, with its silver cap and body, catches Bitty's eye. Fingers deftly picking the pen, he grabs his notebook and half jogs into the conference room. With each step, his legs seem to soften, and his heart starts to pound.

 

The first thing Bitty notices, upon entering, is that every person in the room is looking at all the nooks, cracks, and crannies of the room.

 

Anywhere else but the man standing in front of them.

 

"Nice of you two to show up", Jack comments, forcefully pushing his sleeves to his elbows.  He glares at Bitty and Holster. The two stood in the corner of the room, with Holster right next to the door, and with Bitty leaning against it. They both murmur their apologies. Bitty's eyes instinctively finding the floor as he feels the weight of Jack's glare. "Let's begin."

 

People begin to click their pens and to open their notes. Bitty and Holster side glance at each other as they prepare to do the same.

 

To everybody’s surprise, Jack carelessly throws stacks of papers, with article headlines, draft layouts of what seems to be a newspaper issue, and a printed web layout of Providence Journal Lifestyle.  The sound of piles of paper on top of other piles echoes in the room.

 

“ _The Secret to a lasting New Relationship_ ”, he reads aloud in a mocking tone and proceeds to throw it in the increasing volume of papers. “ _How to tell if she likes you back.”_ Jack throws that one with a bit more force.

 

“Etcetera etcetera”, sharp blue eyes skim over word per word, “and another _shit_ about relationships again, really? What the fuck are we? Are we part of the self-help section now? Can’t you guys write about anything else?”

 

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. “The reason I called for a staff meeting is that it’s clear as a day that the content this Department’s bringing in is absolute nonsense.” He slams the last remaining folders he’s been holding down the table. Pens and other knickknacks vibrating. “What the fuck is happening guys? _‘Hottest Date Spots for Millennials_ ’”, he lets out an anguished frustrated noise.  “What difference are we from Buzzfeed? From TMZ? Do you think people will respect us? The printed content is trash. And I can’t even bear to read the web version.”

 

“Well, what do you want us to do?” The guy next to Holster speaks out. Heads turn in a flash, almost like a knee-jerk reaction. Bitty and Holster look at each other again. It’s the redheaded freckles guy. Is he new? Is it his first time in a meeting? In a _staff_ meeting with _Jack_? Is he an intern? Does he still want to live? “We’ve been doing our best to meet the readers— “

 

Jack scoffs. “Best? That’s a bit embarrassing if you call that your best. Are you sure you guys slaved off in some college or university for four years, or won some essay writing contests, or worked in some famous magazine company, just to produce garbage.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “And I think you’ve got it wrong if you think we’re here to print what the readers want to read”, the redheaded guy rolls his eyes, but smartly avoids any kind of retort, “as part of a newspaper, we’re supposed to be influencing _them_ , not the other way around.”

 

Bitty sneaks a glance at Jack. He quickly averts his eyes to the ground upon discovering that Jack diverted his glowering to him.

 

“We’re redoing everything. From scratch.”

 

There is a largely unannounced act of denunciation going on in that moment. Some of them express their taste of discontent through woeful sighs, and the classic hanging of heads, paired with hunching of shoulders. Others fleetingly glimpse upwards, trying to find some sort of salvation or an act of grace from heaven. Only to be pulled down to the harsh reality that is the inevitable of working overtime, with the distinct honor of one irate department editor.

 

Bitty sighs as he automatically searches among the sea of regret and disappointment, hoping to find truly the person who could actually sympathize with him. And to somehow send a message, through the power of eye gesturing, that their dinner plans with college friends are without a doubt, canceled that night. Looks like they’re going to eat in, possibly drink a bottle or two, and watch _Magic Mike_ or any Channing Tatum movie instead.

 

The person in question stares at him with a deadpan expression. Bitty’s mouth minutely turns upwards as he inwardly chuckles that of course, during times like these, Lardo has always been a step ahead of him in response. She rolls her eyes at Jack, face twisted into a tired grimace.

 

Bitty could only offer a comforting smile and a _‘What can you do?’_ shrug.

 

“Lardo”, Jack studies the layout he’s holding, “did you change the web layout?”

 

“Uh, yeah”, she narrows her eyes, assessing the possible turn of the conversation. “Since the printing company denied the request for additional colorings for the upcoming issue, I figured to do a test run on the company website.”

 

“This is the first time I’m hearing any of this”, the editor grunts.

 

“Well, you’ve been busy. I’ve been busy. Especially with the shitty interns that do not even know how to use the basics of Illustrator. Might’ve slipped my mind.”

 

“Change it back. Change it to default.”

 

“Excuse me?” Lardo chokes out. Bitty gnaws at his lower lip. He knows the time and the effort Lardo has placed in the recent layout. She’s been happier for even taking IT classes, and short multimedia classes for web coding. All photographs used on the website have all been taken by her as well. “What do you mean change it back?”

 

Jack passes a hand over his face. “Change it back”, he sighs. “We’re doing everything from scratch. We’re going to change everything for the anniversary issue at least a _month_ before, not three months before.”

 

“Isn’t that too short notice for the company’s 50th year?” Shitty lays out the words in a suggestive manner.

 

Shrugging nonchalantly, Jack pointedly gazes at Shitty. “No. We’re going to use this month to redo all the planned topics we have. And take the next month to plan for the anniversary issue. Like it or not, talks about merging came up again. The anniversary issue is the turning point if the board decides to keep us or not.”

 

 _Ah, there it is_ , Bitty muses.

 

The elephant in the room finally shows itself.

 

“First, trash all articles. Expect your articles in bin if you’ve written about date spots, or romantic places, or relationship advice”, he explains in a strained voice, “use past issues for references. Go confirm with the junior editors for topic suggestions. If there’s anything you’re unsure of.  Ask me.”

 

“Bittle.” And then there’s lead in his stomach. The way Jack pronounces his name, with furrowed brows and a clenched jaw, freezes the blood in his veins.

 

Bitty snaps in full attention. His fingers poised to write. “Yes, Mr. Zimmerman—I mean Mr. Ja—Jack— “

 

“What the fuck are you trying to write?” His blue eyes light up, as he turns to Bitty, back of the hand hitting the top piled papers. “What is this?”

 

The heavy feeling in the stomach starts to spread all over his body. Pairs of eyes are now scrutinizing him from all corners of the room. There’s nowhere to run. What’s worse is that he knows the reason behind the murderous aura Jack’s emitted since the beginning of the meeting.

 

It’s his latest article. It’s the one about the recent pie-making contest somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s the exact same one that he managed to finish with Jack working across him.

 

“Bittle”, Jack prompts. Bitty jerks in attention. His mind’s racing with a million scenarios regarding the next five minutes. With cold sweat pouring down his back, he realizes that unfortunately, everything’s _real_. And everybody is _still_ looking at him.

 

Holster warily watches the twitching hand next to him. But he tries to focus only on the hand as he clearly _knows_ how awkward as fuck it is to have eyes on you. And knowing Bitty, as much as likes attention, when prompted, there’s something to be said about avoiding the consistent attention Jack’s been giving him since day one.

 

Bitty opens his mouth. And then closes it. Though he opens it again when he realizes that, Jack asked him a question, and he still hasn’t answered. “Uh, I was—I was just trying t-to try a different way to um, write.”

 

The response to his answer is obviously reflected in the grim line of Jack’s mouth. “ _Different?_ ” The repetition feels like a sickening punch in the gut. “How the fuck would you be able to _try to write differently_ if you already write shit in the first place?”

 

“Jack—“someone cuts in. Bitty couldn’t tell who. His hearing must have been gradually fading due to the cacophony of buzzing noises.

 

Still holding his gaze, Bitty helplessly watches Jack held up a hand to whoever it was cutting him off. “No really Bittle. Help me understand here”, a single paper has been snatched from the pile, “When I look at your articles, it’s usually passable. Bland. Messy. And although cheap sounding as it may be, I don’t know if you want to be a copywriter or a blogger from the way you’re writing, but usually, your message of criticism comes across.”

 

Bitty silently prays that nobody notices that his knees were wobbling.

 

“But this is total _garbage_ ”,  Jack hisses, eyes a shocking color of blue, and through this reflection, Bitty could see the way he’s slowly folding right in front of him. “Why the fuck would you change your narrative to the first person? Why the fuck would you focus the narrative to what you _think_? And what’s worse, is that you fill it up with all these unnecessary verbs and adjectives, piling it up to a confusing verbal diarrhea of something incredibly mediocre? Are you trying to write a story, is that it? Is that what you want, Bittle?”

 

“I’m uh”, Bitty coughs, voice weakening.

 

“I’m asking you”, Jack crosses his arms. The paper in his hand has already been crumpled, and yet Bitty could only watch in fascination the way the fabric of Jack’s sleeve hugs his beautifully sculpted bicep. It’s an intensely unusual feeling. The out of body experience he’s currently going through at that moment. Don’t get him wrong, the sinking sensation in his stomach is still there, and his all too aware of the menacing glare threatening to make him resign on the spot. But.

 

The lull of the air conditioning fills in the tight-lipped quietness of the room. A few of its occupants could not help but squirm at the tension, subtly alternating their gazes from their still fuming editor, and to _that_ unfortunate person who seems to be receiving the short end of the stick. Though the Lifestyle Department only holds a number of people, no less than twenty, with the additional coordinators, and outsourced employees, not to mention the seasonal interns, it’s difficult to remember all the names of the people they’ve worked with.

 

It’s either you come to the Department to be already well known, as the case is with Jack Zimmerman. Or you stay in that department long enough to gradually become famous, or to steadily become infamous.

 

The two-letter prefix outcome to that note is decided during this kind of meetings.

 

To stand there for god knows how long, with the pressure looming over your head, reverberates to his body as throbbing, painful, aches. Eyes fleetingly downcast, as he sheepishly brings up a trembling hand to alleviate the thickening discomfort on the nape of his neck, Bitty attempts to pass off a pathetic version of a smile, only to come off as some sort of grimace instead.

 

“I—'m sorry”, he whispers, not trusting himself to speak. His throat feels too narrow, too hot, and too painful. “There’s no other explanation for it. I honestly don’t know what—what I was doing—”

 

“And it clearly shows.”

 

“—I was just, I was just trying to make it more interesting”, he bites his lower lip. “There are around a hundred different activities involving pie making across New York and I just—I wanted it to be better. To be different. I guess I was wrong. I’m—I’m sorr—”

 

Jack exhales loudly. “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Bittle. I’m not looking for any apologies from you. And it doesn’t change the fact that your quality of work is subpar. I’m not even sure how they allowed you to move from being a subject researcher to getting your own _column_ amongst other things”, blue eyes scan Bitty’s article once more. “Just get this in your head. You’re here to work. You’re being paid. You’re not here for any artistic license or freedom or any of that kitschy writer’s ideal shit. Overall, the goal of this department is to hopefully improve the reader’s preference. To influence their _lifestyle_.”

 

He raises his eyes long enough to get Bittle’s attention as he says the next words that will undoubtedly haunt him in his sleep for the next few weeks. “If you have any qualms about them, then I guess this job isn’t for you. It’s simple: either get with the program or _quit_.”

 

Back stiffening at the last word, Bittle bites his lip so hard as he furiously shakes his head, eyes widening enough to stop the tears. He could feel the worry emanating from Holster. He could also feel the murderous aura emanating from Lardo.

 

Jack nods. “Dismissed. Call in the junior editors.”

 

* * *

 

 

A few days after that disaster, Bitty has improved his skills at the game he’s been playing in the office. It’s called the _‘Hide-from-Jack’_ game.

 

It’s simple really. He goes in early at work, studiously types in front of his computer, completely ignore any motion from the office across him, have lunch either with Lardo, or Holster, or even any of the youngsters, with Nursey, or Chowder, or the now identified redhead from the meeting, _Dex_.

 

And Dex had been kind enough to give him a cherry ball candy that same afternoon. With a rather pinched expression, and an awkward pat on the shoulder, the mumbled _‘That was a shitty thing to do. If you need any help, let me know’_ , among the other show of support from his coworkers, somehow helped strengthened the resolve to soldier on to meet their deadlines for that cycle of their season.

 

Any interaction with Jack himself is strictly through email. As promised, he started from scratch, and wrote the article the way Jack wanted him to. Brief, direct, with a dash of subtly layered sarcasm and wit, and if there was a line or two pertaining to the comparison of flavors of burnt pie to the cynicism of overworked bosses, well now, bless their heart, that would only be a bonus, now wouldn’t it?

 

It’s a Friday night, and most people have hurried to vacate the place, lest they be discovered and be somehow forcedly volunteer to work overtime for revisions and for brainstorming. Bittle is so _done_.

 

He has plans with the boys later, to hang out at Holster and Ransom’s place, as his apartment, unfortunately, do not cater to over six feet something buff upped ex-college athletes. They’ve all agreed for a superhero (strictly _Marvel_ , Ransom, so you don’t confuse where _Thor would be oh my god_ ) movie marathon night.

 

A soft tune coming from his speakers, coupled with the dim lighting of the office, save for the blinding light of his screen, has been reducing Bittle into somewhat soft-boned, heavy-lidded, and pliant. His original plan was to insert some light writing, for the updates of his super _delayed_ fanfic, as he’s waiting for Lardo to wrap up with the coordination meeting with the other departments about printing schedules and other inquiries. But the cozy atmosphere, the seclusion, and the mindset that the weekend is only a few hours away has him itching to just go home, change into his jammies, and put on the Food Network on the background as his lullaby.

 

Shaking his head, he opens a document.

 

* * *

 

 

_It was kind of unfair._

_At least according to Yuuri._

_There was nothing going on between the two of them. Absolutely nothing. With Victor’s ethereal looks, and his insane talents, contrasted with his ~~bland, messy, cheap—~~_ ~~~~

* * *

 

Bitty almost breaks his finger as he presses the backspace button. Shaking his head to visualize the scene vividly, he grinds his teeth in order to remove thoughts concerning of a black-haired editor who, coincidentally, had ethereal looks and insane talents as well.

 

* * *

 

_There was nothing going on between the two of them. Absolutely nothing. With Victor’s ethereal looks, and his insane talents, contrasted with his ability to blend in the background, and his insane talent to be the most forgettable person alive._

 

_Although, there’s something unusual going on lately._

_‘A clandestine rendezvous’, Yuuri has thought indulgently on more than one occasion. As soon as people begin to filter out of the workspace, leaving only him, and Victor, its as if a magical spell has been placed. A time warp to an alternate universe. A place where—_

* * *

 

“Bittle?”

 

A shriek, followed by an undignified thud, has Bitty reeling in his place on the floor. His brown eyes immediately poured over to the left open document on the screen, the words glaring from where he was seated in a heap. His scrambles to his feet, saves the file, and hastily exits the window. He doesn’t need to turn in order to identify that voice.

 

“Oh, um, hello”, Bitty smiles reflexively. His gaze lands on where a figure, with shoulders hunched, and brows furrowed, almost seemed to be figuring out a rather complex problem.

 

Finally, Jack raises his head to properly look at him.

 

And funnily enough, there’s this strange yet cliché sensation of déjà vu. With the silence in the room, the music from Bitty’s speakers, and the light casting a gentler feature on each other’s faces.

 

And just like before, it’s Jack who decides to move first.

 

“Listen, Bits—Bittl— _Eric_ , I uh.”

 

“Bitty?” A voice calls from the door, puncturing the privacy of their bubble. Both heads turn towards that direction to see who it is. The cat-eared beanie easily gives it away. “Are you ready to go?” She raises her eyebrows at Bitty’s stiff form.

 

Bitty startles in realization. “I—uh”, he gazes at Jack for answers. In a split second, he could’ve sworn that Jack’s mouth pulls into a frown. But quickly dismisses the thought as he watches the other wave him off in a resigned gesture.

 

“Give me five minutes okay?” Bitty shouts. And if his voice had a quivering note to it, he’s thankful that either party gave it any thought. “Let me just put my mug in the sink.”

 

And as he all but runs towards the pantry, he misses the pointed look Lardo gives Jack, now that they’re not in a working environment. She side-eyes him, and then knowingly glances at the entryway leading to the pantry.

 

Jack shrugs in return. He leaves.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I have no beta.
> 
> And why is it that every last scene consists of another person leaving??
> 
> Also, I can related with Bitty right now, it's not fun to get chewed out in front of your colleagues...
> 
> Anyways, thoughts? I'm also at tumblr. If you wanna be friends or something. Let me know!


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